Sure, I ain’t really sleepin’ none, and I may be on my way to a straitjacket in a white padded room, but this time of year means even more troubles that drive me to the headache powders and Hank’s shine that he hides in the toilet tank.
Like earlier in the summer when I knew Lea was lookin’ to sneak out of the house wearin’ next to nothin’. Bound to wind up on some boy’s boat drunk on strawberry wine or sneakin’ smokes with the pimply summer clerk behind the store while tryin’ to set the place ablaze. This last April Fools, she had me about faint tellin’ me she was pregnant with Johnny Jumper’s love child and that they were movin’ to a sheep farm outside of Great Falls, Montana, till I realized I hadn’t laid eyes on that no-good hoodlum for what had to have been a couple of years, and the
